No Safe Haven
by cyberwulf
Summary: An evening in Meduseld as Theodred, Eomer and Eowyn struggle to deal with Theoden's decline.
1. Theodred

**No Safe Haven**

**By Cyberwulf**

**Summary:** An evening in Meduseld as Théodred, Éomer and Éowyn struggle to cope with Théoden's decline.

**Disclaimer:** All characters and locations portrayed herein were created by J.R.R Tolkien. This is just an attempt to fill a gap in his incredible canon, and I will receive no money for this work of fanfiction. Hail Tolkien, King!

**Rating:** T (just to be safe.)

**Feedback:** Feed the Wulf and click the button!

**Théodred**

Ale. Ale is good. If I drink enough, perhaps I will forget.

I had my first taste of ale when I was twelve. It was at the harvest festival. My father set his pint aside and I drank the dregs of it. So he fetched me a half, and warned me not to guzzle, or I would be sick.

I miss him so.

Éomer and I quarrelled again today. Éomer believes we should disobey our orders and wage war as we see fit, because Father is not himself. I am no fool - I know that Gríma Wormtongue takes advantage of my father's failing health to nudge him this way and that. But he would not bring Rohan to ruin, for then he would suffer too. No... here Éomer is mistaken.

_Rise, _Éomer says, _the men will follow you. Rule until the king is well again. _But such a coup would not be as bloodless as my cousin supposes. We are already under threat from without; we cannot afford internal strife, also. We must do what we can to defend our people. We must trust and obey our king.

At least, what is left of him.

All things that live must die - such is the rule of nature. But this - there is nothing natural about what is happening to him. He was strong, so strong - even when his hair first began to change from yellow to grey. He did not slow down. He was so rarely ill. How is it that he is falling to pieces in front of my eyes?

Away with these womanly tears! I need another ale. How many is it now? Too many - walking is growing difficult. Irresponsible? Yes. But for a short while, I should like very much not to have to care about anything, or anyone. Home was once a haven, a place where the cares that write their names across my brow could not intrude. Now I have no safe place, save in drunken oblivion.

Oh - there, the chair is on the floor...and there is Éowyn, looking at me with a face like thunder.

She drains my drink and pours another, gags upon it almost as she swallows it quickly. She goes back for yet another. This is dangerous - I have seen how Wormtongue looks at her, and he will not hesitate if he finds her senses are dulled.

"Éowyn, you will be drunk."

She pushes me away; she is stronger than she looks. I take hold of the table, which does not move so much as its treacherous friend the floor.

"I want to be drunk!" Éowyn shouts. The intensity of her fury surprises me. "Is that not what you want? To run away? To hide?"

She is right, and I am ashamed.

"Éowyn..."

"I have greater cause to drown my sorrows than you. I see him every day! Limping...mumbling...dribbling his food..." Her voice hitches. "You - both of you - take every chance you can to escape from here, and then you are gone for weeks!" It is true, it is true; I can scarcely bear to come home, I can scarcely bear to look upon the shadow that was once my hero. "Do you care nothing for him?"

How dare she!

"He is my father!"

"And he is mine also!"

Oh, Éowyn - do not cry! I have not seen her weep since she was a child. My tears fall on her as she clings to me tightly. I would offer her comfort and hope, but I cannot. I have but the primacy of this embrace, and it will have to do.

Now Éomer stands in the doorway, gazing at us. Perhaps it is the ale, but to me he looks like the lost, sad little boy he was when first he came to dwell with us. I did not mean to fight with him earlier. Come here, little brother. It will make no difference, but it is all we have left.

At last we can cry no more. Éomer and Éowyn linger in my arms. Shame on me for being so selfish! In these dark days we ought to draw strength from each other. A house divided cannot stand.

"Éowyn, put Théodred to bed," Éomer mumbles.

"No." It is bad enough that she must take care of one old man. She does not need to look after another. "No, that will not be necessary..." I will not fall down, no matter how much this cursed floor moves beneath my feet. "I can make my own way..."

I lose my balance, but she has me.

"Come, Théodred."

I take hold of her, my arm yet another weight on her already burdened shoulders. Shame, shame.

"I am sorry, Éowyn."

"Think no more on it."

I am grateful for her aid; I feel as though the passage is spinning. My bed, at least, stays in its proper place while I sit down. Éowyn looks pale, pinched, fussed. There are dark circles beneath her eyes. Does she sleep at all, any more?

"I am sorry, Éowyn." This is no life for her; it is wrong, all wrong. I would have her wed to some young man, with a family of her own, away from this place. "I am sorry for all this. I should be here..." Blast these wretched tears! I had thought them all spent. "You should not have to bear this burden alone."

"If Rohan did not need you, then you would be here." Oh, Éowyn, it is kind of you to say so, to forgive me; for I could do more. I should do more. I am his son; the burden of his care should fall on me, not on you.

She has hold of my hand. Hers was once only the size of my palm, but it has grown, and so has she. Yet in my mind she will always be my little sister, to be protected and defended.

Am I still Father's little boy?

Does he know me any more?

"Promise you will not worry about me," Éowyn implores.

I want to laugh. Can the sun promise it will not rise in the morning?

"You know I cannot."

My eyes are growing heavy; the slumber I sought earlier is threatening to overtake me. My fingers, working at my laces, have grown clumsy.

"Can I help?"

"No." I will not have her undress me. I have caused her too much trouble already.

Her goodnight kiss is soft against my cheek.

Ah, in this battle my clothes are winning. I have got my boots off; that is enough. Even the stars cannot penetrate the thick cloud hanging in the sky tonight, and when I snuff the candle my chamber is pitch dark. But perhaps...perhaps in the morning things will seem better.

No, they will not.


	2. Eowyn

**Éowyn**

Uncle was a little better today. We took a short walk around the garden; he called me Éowyn. He has good days and bad - the good are few and far between. Once they gave me hope that he was coming round, that he would soon be himself again. But every time it is a false recovery, and I have no hope left; I have nothing but this lump of ice in place of my heart.

I have some small comfort tonight, for Théodred and Éomer are home for a time. Éomer helped me put Uncle to bed. Théodred has been withdrawn since dinner. They think I do not hear them when they talk amongst themselves. I know how badly the war is going, how they find themselves pressed on all sides. It is but a matter of time before one or both of them come home on their shields; and I dare not consider what will happen then.

That clatter - it came from the hall where we take our meals. I see Théodred inside, bracing himself against the table, leaning down for the chair he's knocked.

He is drunk.

Disgust surges up from the pit of my stomach. I take his flagon and drain it in two gulps, refill it from the barrel, and swallow it all. It shocks my stomach and I nearly bring it back up. I go for another and Théodred leans over me, taking hold of the flagon.

"Éowyn, you will be drunk," he mumbles, breath stinking of ale.

I push him away.

"I want to be drunk!" He stumbles backwards, somehow maintaining his balance. I care not if he falls on his rear, I care not if he splits his head open on the floor. " Is that not what you want? To run away? To hide?"

"Éowyn..."

I will hear no excuses.

"I have greater cause to drown my sorrows than you. I see him every day! Limping...mumbling...dribbling his food..." Curse these tears of weakness burning my eyes! "You - both of you - take every chance you can to escape from here, and then you are gone for weeks!" Théodred will not look at me. "Do you care nothing for him?"

He looks up suddenly, face flushing red in beer-fuelled rage.

"He is my father!"

"And he is mine also!"

Inside something breaks, and salt water floods down my cheeks. Théodred pulls me into a clumsy bear hug. His chest shudders; he is crying too. A moment later, Éomer is here, holding us both.

Eventually the well runs dry, but we remain for a time, clinging to each other. Éomer snuffles.

"Éowyn, put Théodred to bed."

"No." Théodred moves away a little, trying to stand on his own. "No, that will not be necessary..." He holds onto the table. "I can make my own way..."

I go to him before he falls.

"Come, Théodred."

He puts his arm around my shoulders.

"I am sorry, Éowyn."

"Think no more on it."

Théodred's chamber is not far. I support him as he lets go and sinks onto his bed. His hair is turning grey. I did not notice before. His brow has many furrows. I own I thought him quite handsome once - when I was thirteen I fell madly in love with him for the summer, even though he was my kin. In my mind's eye he will ever be impossibly tall, surprisingly young, a teasing, playful smile on his lips.

I cannot remember when last I saw him smile.

He looks up at me, ashamed.

"I am sorry, Éowyn," he says again. He looks about him, then shrugs in despair. "I am sorry for all this. I should be here..." Oh, do not cry, Théodred, please! Your tears are contagious, and I would not leave your chamber with weak, reddened eyes. "You should not have to bear this burden alone."

"If Rohan did not need you, then you would be here." I spoke in anger before; I did not mean a single word. He remains unconvinced, staring at the floor. I sit next to him and take his hand. The palm was smooth once, but now it is coarse and rough, callused by sword and rein and war.

"Promise you will not worry about me."

"You know I cannot," he whispers.

I know not how to lift his spirits. My own lie in the dirt, perhaps never to rise again. He withdraws his hand from mine, turns away and starts, clumsily, to undress.

"Can I help?"

"No."

I do not think he is talking about his ties.

Since I can do nothing more, I kiss his cheek and leave him be.

I have taken three, perhaps four strides before I hear Wormtongue's poisonous voice.

"You should take care, my lady." I like not how he moves around me - slithering and watchful, like a rat that has grown bold enough not to run from man, but still knows to keep its distance. "Who knows what ugly rumours may spread if you are seen leaving men's quarters at this time of night."

"You know well that it is my cousin's chamber. I was bidding him goodnight." Wormtongue does not need to know that Théodred is drunk.

"Indeed." He stops in front of me, and I cannot place the expression on his face. Oh, to burn out those beady little eyes...

"I have often wondered why it is that a man of Théodred's years has not yet wed," Gríma says. "This is no way to provide his house with heirs." He adopts an air of innocence. "I wonder - are his desires entirely natural?"

What? How dare he say such a -

He touches my arm, full of concern.

"He has not made any advances towards you, I hope?"

I grab a sword and plunge it deep into his chest, relishing his screams as I force his ribcage apart. His heart is a lump of blackened, rotting meat, pumping vile green slime around his body in place of blood.

Alas that it is just a fantasy.

Wormtongue must see something in my eyes, for he steps back, feigning contrition and deference.

"Forgive me. I spoke only out of concern for you, my lady."

I want to laugh. Concern for me? He is but waiting for one moment of complete despair; one moment when I am so desperate I will do anything, say anything, to make things better, and then he will play the part of my saviour. His intentions are utterly selfish and he seeks to cloak them in honeyed words and kindness. My lip curls in disgust.

"It pains me to see you this way." Why must he continue with this charade, all mournful eyes and sorrowful voice? Does he take me for a fool? "I would take you away from all this." Humbly he directs his eyes to the floor. "I would...ease your suffering, somehow."

I regard him for a moment, his pasty skin, stooped frame, lank, greasy hair. It is not his appearance that I find repugnant; it is the darkness in his heart that leaks out through the facade.

"There is one way you could ease my suffering."

He looks up. Hope flares suddenly in those sunken, bloodshot eyes.

Vile creature.

"Die!"

He recoils at the venom in that single word, much to my satisfaction. I stalk past him, towards the balcony.

It is not as cold out here as I expected; likely because there is no wind tonight. The stars are veiled; nothing can get through the heavy cloud.

It is a long way down from this balcony.

Perhaps there is only one way to ease my suffering.

"Éowyn!"

Éomer touches me gently on the shoulder. Fear and love are intertwined in his eyes. I know that he would help me, if he was not needed elsewhere. I take his hand. He cups my cheek - his hand is rough and callused, like Théodred's.

"Éowyn..."

I wait for him to continue, but instead he looks upwards, at the night sky.

A single star, a solitary point of light, pierces the thick cloud.

I put my arm around him.

"It will be all right."

He looks at me, surprised. Then after a moment he slides his arm around me.

It will be all right.


	3. Eomer

**Éomer**

The air is calm and still this evening; deceptively peaceful. I can see little pinpricks of light from hearth fires in the city. How many houses will our enemies burn to the ground tonight? Will our soldiers be able to stop them? Or will they fall, pierced and slashed by poisoned weapons?

I am here only because my men and I were relieved by fresh troops; because I had grown so weary and slept so little that I could no longer think clearly. _A few days at home, my lord Éomer, will see you fit and fresh again. _Erkenbrand would speak the truth, had I but a home to go to. Meduseld is a refuge no longer. I can find no rest here, no joy.

I aided Éowyn in putting my uncle to bed. I can hardly believe how weak and enfeebled he has become - not only in body, but in mind also. Éowyn told me that Uncle sometimes calls her by our mother's name. It is little wonder she no longer smiles.

I have done little to bring her comfort and cheer tonight, for I argued with Théodred yet again. Théodred and Éowyn likely think me cold and unfeeling. But one of us must be practical, objective. They cannot. Their father is dying.

It grows cold out here in the dark. Inside there is a fire, and shelter from the wind and rain, but no real warmth, no real safety. I should count myself fortunate: there are many now who have nothing at all.

There are strange noises coming from the hall where we dine. Théodred and Éowyn are standing by the table, locked in an embrace. Tears stream down Théodred's grizzled cheeks. I do not think I have ever seen him cry...save perhaps at Mother's funeral. He holds his arm out to me.

These tears - my tears - have ambushed me! I go to them: my big brother, my little sister. Théodred smells of ale and leather; Éowyn smells of grass and open spaces. There is a smell to sickness and decay; it permeated our house when Mother fell ill, and here it hangs in every room. This will make three parents I have lost, three graves for me to mourn by.

Finally we run out of tears. I have my head on Théodred's shoulder. It seems as though he has grown smaller of late. He is weaving a little on his feet, and his breath stinks of beer.

"Éowyn, put Théodred to bed."

"No." Théodred moves from under me, his face flushing red. "No, that will not be necessary..." He holds onto the table. "I can make my own way..."

He pitches to one side, and I go to catch him, but Éowyn reaches him first.Shelooks after Théodred, and I go in the other direction, to look upon my uncle as he sleeps. He lies always on the left side of the bed. Théodred told me that is because my aunt Elfhild would always lie on the right. I remember the first night Éowyn and I spent here. I could not sleep and Éowyn was crying for Mother, so Uncle let us sleep in his bed with him. He sang Éowyn to sleep and held me when at last I began to cry, cursing Father for leaving us that fateful day, railing against Mother for not fighting harder to stay alive. How wary I was, when first we came here; I had supposed he would be stern, unused to children. Instead he treated us as if we were his own, offering comfort when we were ill, smiling at our games, occasionally joining us in our play.

And now he lies here, wasting away before me.

Father died on his feet, a sword in his hand, his eyes wide open. Mother faded quickly over a handful of dark, terrible days. Uncle is lingering, edging little by little towards the abyss. There are no good ways to die.

Meanwhile Rohan ails with Uncle, besieged by enemies, and I cannot fight them as I will without royal permission.

I could take the vacant pillow - I do not think he would struggle...he lacks even the strength to snore. Théodred would ascend the throne, and we could grieve for him properly, for it would be done, at least...there would be no more waiting, no more anxiety...

Madness! Kill my uncle! May the Valar forgive me for thinking such a thing!

But who does it benefit to have him lying there, like that?

A shadow flits across the doorway and slithers down the passage.

Wormtongue.

The corridor is poorly lit, and he has all but vanished in the flickering torchlight. Éowyn stands some yards away from me. She is tense, angry. Gríma's pale face flashes in the gloom. Can he not leave her alone? Curse the day he crawled into our lives! One day he will tire of Éowyn's rebuffs, leave off his attempts to woo her with words, and instead try to take her by force. And when that day comes, I will not be here; I will be helpless to stop it.

Éowyn flees suddenly. What has he said to her! My feet carry me swiftly to where she stood. Uncle's 'esteemed councillor' stands by the wall, eyes directed at the ground. Would that I could slit his throat from ear to ear. He glances up at me fearfully. You, sir, are not nearly frightened enough. Be thankful that I have no time to waste on you.

Éowyn is out on the balcony. She leans on the rail, looking down. Fear clutches at my heart.

"Éowyn!"

She turns when I touch her shoulder, and takes my hand. She is so pale, and her cheek is icy when I caress it. Is she trembling out of fear or cold? I am her brother; I should comfort her, offer her warmth and safety, speak words of hope.

"Éowyn..."

It is a good beginning, but I can think of nothing to follow...

Is that a star?

Éowyn draws closer, and lays her head against my shoulder. My eyes do not deceive me - one star has come out from behind the clouds.

"It will be all right," Éowyn murmurs.

I remember the first winter solstice we spent here. I lamented that Mother and Father were no longer alive to celebrate with us. Uncle told me, "We have each other."

At least, in these troubled times, we still have each other.

THE END


End file.
